


Are You Alive

by ElliVanLee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF Stiles, Disability, Eichen | Echo House, Hurt Peter Hale, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mates Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mental Health Issues, Morally Ambiguous Stiles Stilinski, Murder Husbands, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Stiles Stilinski, Revenge, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stiles Stilinski Has Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22552279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliVanLee/pseuds/ElliVanLee
Summary: It always starts with fire.It’s fire that brands souls together.It’s fire that engraves matching marks on soulmates' skins.It’s fire that starts every love story.Stiles and Peter are no exceptions.But for them, it was also a fire that burned their lives away.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 39
Kudos: 201





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest: this is my first fic and English is not my first language. But I tried my best. I have over 90 ideas but for now they are mostly concepts. As it is my first time writing anything like that really, I went with one of the 'easiest' stories I came up with. I didn't want to start with something too ambitious which I wouldn't be able to finish. So I would really appreciate if you left a comment. If you notice any mistakes please tell me and I'll try to edit the work (but don't be too harsh on me). 
> 
> This story is mostly finished. I'm currently wrapping up the last chapters. But it is a short one, 4-6 chapters long at most.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf and I do not make any profit from my writing. I do it only for my and yours entertainment.

It starts with fire.

The burning feeling marking your skin.

Mind going from wild to dead still.

Heart trying to break free.

Thundering noise blocking out the whole world.

Fire from somewhere within.

Peter never really believed he would get a soulmate.

He was born with a skin bare of any mark and he spent the first years of his life waiting for the day he would be chosen.

Peter grew up wondering what it’s like to have this one person being chosen just _for you_ – and _being chosen_ for someone. He grew up wondering what would it be like to have a soulmate. He wished he would find out one day.

But years passed and no mark claimed his skin. Slowly he started to doubt. Soon after came sorrow and anger (at himself for _not being enough_ and at others for _being worthy_ of a soulmate). That was his way of dealing with being unwanted. Unmarked. But he didn’t let anyone see through him. He built a brick wall around himself so that no one could see past the charming smiles and big ego, so that no one could see the pain and despair marking his mind and body in its own way. As a teenager he accepted ( _lying to himself was easier_ ) the fact that there never was and never will be any soulmate – _The One_ – waiting somewhere out there for him.

But here he is, shivering on a bed, covered in sweat with breath stuck in his throat. Blue eyes focused on a seemingly innocent mark that engraved itself on his body like it belonged there, thin lines crawling up his right arm, reaching out to his heart, claiming not only his body but soul as well.

He can’t take his eyes off it, trapped in a trance of the fantasy he never believed would come true.

A shuddering breath breaks out of his too tight throat. Wide eyes open and unbelieving. Shaky fingers reach the daring lines, afraid to break the illusion.

But then Peter touches the marks that just embraced the right side of his body-

_A_ _soulmark_.

It’s real. Burned on his skin and in his soul.

He doesn’t know how long he spent watching the marks on his body, tracing and memorizing them with frantic eyes and shaky hands, mesmerized by it. He just _can’t stop_ _watching_.

The mark itself, he notices after he regained some sense of reality, is rather big. Where usually soulmarks take a small single form, his reaches from his right hand, crawls up the arm and ends curling at the center of his chest, right over his heart. He decides it’s only fitting, seeing as he’s supposed to take on the role of the Left Hand of his Alpha. He wonders if that means his mate will be his opposite – the Right to his Left, the light to his darkness, a salvation to his desperation.

He looks forward to meet them. _His perfect match_.

* * *

For Stiles it didn’t start with fire.

He was one of many born with a soulmark already on their soft skin, yet to be branded by the cruel world. Innocent and pure, born sure and knowing that somewhere out there is their other half already waiting for them. Those people didn’t have to suffer long and lone years spent on _not_ _knowing_. The uncertainty, the doubt eating more and more of a soul earning to reunite with its other half.

Stiles was one of the lucky ones. He grew up knowing that he has a soulmate. He grew up thinking what they might be like, how the two of them will meet, how they will fit together oh so perfectly. He grew up wondering what it’s like to have this one person in the whole world being _just_ _perfect_ for you.

For Stiles fire came later.

* * *

His mother died two years ago. Two years, yet it still feels like yesterday.

None of them has learnt how to cope, both too lost in grief. John spends his time on working and drinking his sorrows away ( _they never let go – only pull deeper_ ). Work and alcohol now the only constants in his life. Passing through life and drowning in it. And Stiles hovers outside of this thick shield – being right there and yet too far away. He’s still too close. He’s a part of the previous life.

A _living_ proof of what was lost.

Losing your soulmate is essentially losing half of your soul. The connection cut raw, sharp spikes and bottomless void left in the place once filled only with light, warmth and _life_.

Losing your mother is like the end of the world. Unimaginable. Violent. _Too soon_. Nothing can prepare for what comes after. Not even months of knowing the inevitable. The change is raw, ruthless and absolute.

Stiles thinks he understands his father’s loss. They both got thrown into familiar yet so foreign world. All insignificant places, just the normal, constant parts of their world, now seem strikingly empty and visible. Meaningful. Then they were only places. Now they are _empty_ spaces.

He lost his _mom_.

(And with her his family as well.)

* * *

Talia says he has depression.

She says it too lightly, not understanding the weight of foreign emotions that make his soul crumble. Not understanding how deep reaches the void that’s been consuming him for the past two years.

But Peter knows what that means. _His soulmate suffers_. And _he_ can’t do nothing about it.

During the past two years, sorrow, pain and resignation overpowered Peter’s own feelings. With every day he became less of himself. He became more distant, the vibrant and fiery personality giving up under closed off and controlled façade. Bright smiles became smirks. Warm and bright eyes changed into icy blue. Natural swagger turned into calculated moves.

Talia – or anyone for that matter, really – didn’t like this new Peter. Although he became even better at dealing with any kind of threat to the Pack or territory, he became… difficult. That’s what she’d name it. It was hard for her to watch her little brother ( _she didn’t think of him like that for a long time_ ) wither away, leaving in his place this cold and detached person that now takes pleasure in sharp words rather than genuine jokes, that now reminds her more of a predator than a person ( _a family_ ). She decided it’s not good for her kids, Derek especially, now after he finally got over Paige’s death. Peter could reverse all the progress he made. And she couldn’t let that happen.

She told Peter he needed a break (we _need a break_ ), from this town and from whatever has been troubling him those past two years. She told him to go somewhere, make himself _feel_ something again.

So he left Beacon Hills, only came back for special family events. ( _He got the message. He’s a burden. Once again unwanted…_ ).

Talia thought she took the right decision. Everything seemed to settle down finally.

* * *

Stiles was at home, alone, when it happened.

He just came back from school to an empty house, nothing out of ordinary. He took some juice from the kitchen and went straight to his room. Not feeling up to anything really, which again, nothing out of ordinary, he curled up on the bed with his new book, hoping to get lost in the words and fictional world of wonders.

He didn’t noticed, but he started to get anxious. Unconsciously he started to rip pages from the book. He wasn’t really reading anymore, lost to foreign images invading his head. He didn’t know-

**Then the _fire_ consumed him.**

He was _howling_ screaming in agony.

Nails _clawing_ at skin trying to tame the _fire_ pain consuming his _theirs_ whole body.

He could only hear his own _theirs_ heart _screams_ hammering in his chest.

He couldn’t see, complete blackness _fire and smoke_ surrounding him _them_ , pushing down, blinding, _choking_.

_They_ were trashing on the bed _floor_ , trying to tame the _fire_.

He was screaming for his father _sister_ mother. _Anyone_.

**_They were burning._ **

* * *

Hours later John Stilinski will come home to find his son curled up on the bathroom floor, half naked and drenched in sweat, with angry red lines covering his whole right side of the body, with eyes wide open but lost to images of _fire_.


	2. Soul On Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the news of the unfortunate accident that killed most of the Hales, the most prominent family in Beacon Hills County, were shocking and tragic, the tale of a local cop’s son suffering after losing a soulmate, for months to no end, was even more tragic in the most entertaining way. For a long time there wasn’t a day you wouldn’t hear someone saying “this poor boy”.
> 
> Nothing could stop the fire from eating away his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this chapter is all hurt - no comfort. Sorry but it was needed to be done. And I recommend the song "I Found" by Amber Run. It helped me get in the proper mood to write this chapter.

Surprisingly Stiles didn’t spend much time in the hospital. Only two days before he was sent back home with simple yet crushing statement: It’s a matter of soul and mind, not body.

(Stiles would have laugh at how cliché that sounded if he didn’t feel like burning alive from invisible flames.)

The only thing the doctors could do was take care of his scratches. Most of them weren’t too deep, thankfully, and would heal quite fast, but some acquired stitches and would probably leave scars. Another reminder of what he had lost, as if the faded soulmark wasn’t enough.

Since the doctors couldn’t do anything to help his condition, the painkillers and therapists were apparently his only hope. Only that nothing helped, not at bit. No matter what they did, nothing stopped the _fire_ from eating away his soul.

People pitied him. Who wouldn’t? Apparently everyone assumed that one of the Hale children that died in the fire had to be Stiles’ soulmate. It wasn’t an official statement of course, with no way of proving that theory, but it was pitiful and tragic enough for people in town to entertain them for a while.

(No one suspected that this boy’s soulmate could be the only survivor, still fighting for life – or praying for end.)

* * *

His father was crushed. He knew what losing your soulmate felt like, he knew that pain. And he never wanted that to happen to his only child. He was even more crushed with how it all affected Stiles – how it was _still_ affecting him.

He was diagnosed with trauma caused by soulmate’s death. It happened, sometimes, especially with a strong bond (why some bonds were stronger than other people still had problem figuring out), although such strong reaction, especially days after losing a soulmate was rather abnormal.

At first, right after the fire, Stiles felt like he was literally burning, all the time, the fire never managed to die down. He couldn’t function normally, constantly feeling the flames licking at his skin, always taunting, not giving him even a second of break. Screaming, crying from agony, whimpering and choking on nothing – the only things Stiles was able to do nowadays. Painkillers could only do so much when the pain didn’t actually come from your own body. Those first months Stiles spent in a state of literal agony, barely conscious from exhaustion but not able to fully sleep, the fire keeping him awake at all times.

John never left his side. He installed the cooler to somehow help his burning son. John would draw cold baths and prepare cool drinks for Stiles. The two often spent time at the cool floor of their little bathroom. They slept in one bed, since Stiles couldn’t be left alone and wasn’t even able to fall asleep without heavy dose of sleep pills.

Melissa came by as often as she could with her working long shifts at the hospital. She helped John in taking care of both Stiles and himself as the man not so long ago seemed to be a lost cause, drowned in alcohol and buried in grief. Scott tried to help his friend as well, but the boy couldn’t really do anything but offer some little comfort in not being alone. He would read Stiles comics or talk about a movies and what not. It was hard for him to see his only friend in such pain. He couldn’t even hug him ( _not when every touch made his skin melt and burn_ ).

Few neighbors and John’s colleagues from work dropped by from time to time to help the poor father, usually by cleaning the house or bringing some food, seeing as he didn’t have time nor energy for any of this. The man was glued to Stiles’ side, not wanting to leave him even for a second.

While the news of unfortunate accident that killed most of the Hales, one of the most prominent families in Beacon Hills County, were shocking and tragic, the tale of a local cop’s son suffering after losing his soulmate, for months to no end, was even more tragic in the most entertaining way. For a long time there wasn’t a day you wouldn’t hear someone saying “ _this poor boy_ ”.

(Everyone seemed to forgot about one broken man lying at the hospital and _still_ _burning_.)

* * *

Eventually things started to tone down.

After few months the raging fire slowly gave up, but the feeling of burning skin never let go.

He couldn’t handle warm temperatures, not even water, when to him it felt like fire all over again. All the boy could drink was cool drinks which he drowned like a dying man. No solid meals, eventually some shakes. He couldn’t really stomach anything but still was forced to at least try some light diners, seeing as after those few months of endless suffering he became quite thin, almost skinny.

And still. So disturbingly _still_.

None of those always present moves and little ticks, effects of his constant pent-up energy. Now every move was a sign of pain. Shudders wrecking his vulnerable body. Sudden spasms wounding his body so tight, every bone in his little body came prominent. Always in pain, always hurting. No more little Stiles practically vibrating out of his skin, full of life and energy. Always moving. Always doing something. Always talking. And now?

_Silence_.

No more uncontrollable babbling on every topic this young bright boy set his mind on. In a house where once joyful laughter and never ending chatter were constant parts of every day, now only stifled sobs, pitiful whimpers and _pleas for_ _end_ were heard.

Seeing Stiles so still, and more importantly so quiet, was the most worrisome to everyone. It was disturbing. Because Stiles always seemed to be _everywhere_. Now, trapped in fire and pain, he was not even a shell of his old (this word shouldn’t be used on someone still so young) self.

He was… burning out.

But then, after a year or so, came other unexpected changes.

After the loss of a soulmate people usually become, to put it frankly, shells of themselves. Sadness, grief, numbness and even no will to live are fully expected. This is what John’s felt after he lost Claudia (still does, such pain never truly lets go, always lingering in the depths of a broken soul). But this is not what Stiles felt. Not even close.

It wasn’t a sudden change. It was gradual.

When the pain became tolerable enough that Stiles could somehow function normally (that is, eat by himself, not drink gallons of water a day and sleep more than 2 hours a day, with lower dose of sleep pills) people hoped he would slowly get back to himself, that the bright boy they all knew and adored would once again fill their lives with amusement and exasperation.

But that’s not what happened. After a year from this tragic day came a different kind of fire.

Stiles became snappish. He was oversensitive, not only physically but emotionally and mentally as well Constantly frustrated and easy to anger, while there was no actual reason for such reactions. No one knew why he started to act this way – possibly not even Stiles did really know. At first they could understand and just bear it, taking his behavior for reaction to his soulmate’s death. But the days passed and with each one Stiles became more and more angry. Those weren’t some relatively normal temper tantrums or angry outbursts anymore.

Eventually Stiles became _aggressive_. He started to fully act on this anger that started to consume him just like the fire before did. He was restless, burning from different kind of fire. And what was probably the worst, he didn’t even seem to be aware of what he was doing.

The mood swings didn’t disappear with this…. development either. No, they only got worse. Stiles could go from practically spitting with anger to complete breakdown in mere seconds.

Sometimes he would be almost detached from reality, like if he got lost in void that was gnawing on his soul. He would then sit unnaturally still, with eyes unseeing, completely cut off from the world around him. Like in a trance of sorts. He either came out of it on his own or something, or worse, _someone_ , would wake him up, which always led to the same reaction: he would _snap_ , with anger _flaring_ in those lost not a second before eyes. No one could understand how such little boy could have so much anger in him, fully subjecting him to the raging force that with unsettling ease brought havoc on anything in his way.

And then there were times when he felt like dying.

Crushed by such sadness and grief, that his own father couldn’t comprehend. It was even worse to see him so broken. The pain in his eyes was beyond anything they could imagine. If that’s possible, worse than that from losing a soulmate.

John couldn’t stand watching his still _so young_ son suffer from such unbearable crippling pain. Melissa wasn’t any better. They both tried to help Stiles in any way possible but despite all of their efforts his state seemed to only worsen. Like something was wrecking a havoc inside him, trying desperately to break free. This wasn’t a normal behavior, not even for someone who suffered the loss of soulmate. The doctors were quite baffled with his condition, not sure what to make out of it.

* * *

About a year after that damned day, Stiles was deemed a danger to both himself and others. He was diagnosed with serious trauma caused by the loss of a soulmate which resulted in developed anger issues.

And at the age of 12, Stiles was sent to Eichen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... what do you think? Leave a comment on your way out (please). Also, if you notice any mistakes, please inform me - non-English speaker here, I remind you. 
> 
> Next chapter in the next week. Prepare for some big time skip and Stiles POV.
> 
> Have a nice day/night!


	3. Back from the dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He eventually managed to detach himself – at least partially – from the fire still raging in his soul. But what he wasn’t able to detach himself from is reality. 
> 
> This deep rooted anger never left him. Only at some point it became his very own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, my dear readers
> 
> Just as I promised: we switch to Stiles' POV. I tried to make it sound like him and remember that he's not this goofy teen from the first season we all adore. But I still did try to add some humor and I hope I haven't failed at that. And look at that - over 3000 words! Yes, I plan for the next chapters to be longer than the first two. 
> 
> Also remember - not an English speaker here, so if you see any mistakes please let me know. 
> 
> And special thank you to all the people that have commented and/or left kudos on this story so far and those who bookmarked it already. Love you all!
> 
> The title for this chapter was inspired by the words of Boba Fett from Robot Chicken Star Wars edition. If you like SW, even a little, and you haven't seen Robot Chicken's crazy version, then you should check out at least Boba's greatest moments. He's hilarious.
> 
> Song theme for this chapter is "Sinister Kid" by The Black Keys. Enjoy!

_Fucking Hell. Was life always that boring?_

About a week ago, after four long years of suffering through oh so helpful therapies and gentle care of Eichen House staff, Stiles was released from the house of damned that he was forced to call home for far too long.

Now, 16 years old and surprisingly still kicking, he marches back into the land of sane (or so they claim) and living.

He spent the first few days on making himself at home in his own “home”, which doesn’t seem to have worked out seeing as he still feels like a stranger. He doesn’t belong here nor anywhere in particular, not anymore. The house that once was the center of his bright and joyful world, now is only that – a house. A building, without any feel or touch, that he happens to resident at.

For these four years he somehow idealized this view of his home as the only safe place in the whole world. _His_ place. The one that belonged to him and which they couldn’t take from him. It was this constant reminder in his lost mind, that he _has_ a place to return to.

Now he has to admit he’s disappointed. You know, like when you wish for a film like fantasy in your real life to happen but you get bird shit instead. This kind of disappointment.

He probably should feel sad or whatever, but well, the thing is he doesn’t really _feel_ anymore. Not in your typical, normal way that is. He _does_ feel, only usually emotional numbness seems to overcome any fledgling _positive_ emotion that flare up to life in his old and burned out soul. He managed to stamp down the raging fire (only about _two years_ after it erupted inside him and burned his life away), but then the empty space was partially overtaken by numbness.

But he can still feel it. The fire. Flames licking at his skin, trying to take him back to the nightmare of ( _not_ ) his life. For one reason it’s actually a good thing, ‘cause he can _feel it_. Otherwise most of his right side of body is more or less numb. Especially arm and face. They just don’t function properly anymore. At best, he can barely move his right arm and twitch few fingers. Besides that he has a permanent limp in his right leg, his hearing in the right ear is almost gone _and_ he needs to wear contacts in his right eye ‘cause he can’t see shit without them. Oh, he almost forgot – _and_ his skin is itching. Like, all the time. It itches. Itches. Aaaand… _itches_. Sometimes he feels like using a circular saw to scrub himself raw…

As if this constant itching wasn’t enough, he still suffers from uncontrollable body tremors and of course, _because he can’t have it easy_ , occasional muscles seizures as well ( _aren’t those a bitch to deal with_ ). But the most bothersome are those damn phantom pains that make itching pleasant. But he’s not a little kid anymore, plus he had a lot of time to practice pain endurance at Eichen ( _five fucking stars for that_ ). And bless science for pain meds.

As for his mental state, well, it definitely could be better.

During those four years he has suffered through so many mental breakdowns, emotional turmoils and what not, it’s a real wonder he’s not in a vegetative state right now but almost functioning like an actual living being. After years of therapy, mind-numbing drugs and Brunski’s gentle care, he managed to detach himself – at least partially – from the fire still raging in his soul.

What he wasn’t able to detach himself from is _reality_.

This deep rooted anger never left him. Only at some point it became his very own.

But he learnt how to deal with his anger issues. It turns out that anger can be really dumbing ( _is that even a word?_ ). More so, he saw a potential in those dark emotions ( _fuck, he sounds like some Sith Lord_ ) and decided to simply make them more… useful. At some point he started to feel so natural in these new dark ways, he began to resemble a predator in an innocent human skin.

He doesn’t mind that. Everyone else? That’s a different story.

* * *

School.

Oh how he anticipated this day to come. And the best thing is it actually went exactly how he’s expected.

Everyone avoided him like a walking plague. Seriously, it was _so_ _dramatic_ he started to consider renaming himself to Darth Plagueis. It’s only fitting seeing as the whole population of Beacon Hills thinks he’s some kind of Sith Lord. It’s hilarious and quite entertaining, he must admit. And thanks the Force ( _well, he should take seriously to the role of a Sith_ ) for that, ‘cause the boredom was killing him.

His dad drove him to school but dropped him far enough that no one paid attention to the Sheriff’s cruiser passing by. This way he managed to slip through the parking lot unnoticed, but he dropped the invisibility cloak when he got to the main entrance. The he moment he stepped through the doors everyone’s eyes were focused on him. The silence that followed was pleasantly disturbing. 

As he marched forward, the crowds of students parted before him, backing away from the threat they believed him to be. He decided to play on their nerves a little: sometimes he would take an abrupt turn that made most of the students flinch away – some even jump.

Somehow he managed to sneak into yet empty classroom without notice. He sat down at the back of the class, what positioned him right behind everyone’s backs – what will make them all squirm in their seats in about a minute. Nothing will top the moment students started coming into the classroom. As they noticed him everyone stopped dead in their tracks, like damn deers caught in the headlights.

Maybe he should buy some yellow-red eye contacts to improve his appearance. This whole “Sith way” with every such incident, becomes more and more appealing.

Seriously, when he (fake) sneezed most of the class jumped like if he fired a bomb.

* * *

Apparently Stiles lost his best friend.

Not that he didn’t know that already ( _contrary to popular belief, he didn’t lose his mind nor had any delusions_ ), he caught up when four months passed since he was admitted to Eichen and he didn’t hear a word from his “bro”. But he reserved himself a right to be at least a little bitter about it now.

Scott’s new bestie seems to be one Isaac Lahey. Or the Scarf Face as Stiles prefers to call him. The two are nearly inseparable ( _like_ they _used to be_ ). And kind douche, really. They both have this whole innocent cupcake (or puppy for Scott) demeanor, but they act more like typical jocks. They are loud, harsh and-

Oh right – Scott’s on Lacrosse team now. That was a bit shocking, he must admit. The last time he saw the guy he couldn’t even race up the stairs without fighting for breath. And now: Lacrosse team, first line (alongside his new _buddy buddy_ of course). How he did this, he’s not sure. He doesn’t really care enough to find out. Now his nerdy asthmatic ex-brother from another mother belongs to the more popular circles of Beacon High. What a… development?

As he said, he reserves himself a right to be still a little bitter about this whole bro-divorce thing, so that logically calls for mental torment.

But Stiles didn’t even have to try that hard. As soon as Scott saw him – and young Sith Lord made sure to make it more cliché than it was possible to be – he thought the guy got asthma attack. The headlines would feed most of the sensation-starved population of their dear Beacon Hills County for a long time: “ _Mental asylum ex-resident causes asthma attack, almost killing high school student_ ”. That would be something. But (unfortunately or not) other than choking on air and eyes falling out of sockets, nothing have happened. Scott was too scared or too guilty to approach him.

* * *

The first day at school should be more tiring but it actually gave him a good doze of dark energy. He hasn’t feel so hyped up in a long time (only in about _7 years_ , since his mother’s death). It should bother and definitely scare him a little that _school_ excited him so much.

His father picked him up after classes. The man decided it would be the best solution for now, him driving Stiles to and from school, as the teen still needs to relearn living an actual life in actual society. He doesn’t really mind that. He always liked to drive with his father in his cruiser and now they’re in a desperate need for some serious bonding time, so the memories of the past happy life maybe would do some magic. Besides driving in the police car only improved his new image of dark, dangerous and crazy. Maybe his dad could be persuaded to let him sit at the back, like a proper villain.

He doubts it. His father… is actually wary of him. He doesn’t blame him for that. He has changed – and it’s hard to tell whether it’s a good thing or not. He’s not convulsing in pain all the time anymore, so that’s probably a plus, yet Stiles can’t help but think sometimes that his dad just… preferred him that way. It’s not that he- _ugh_. He just thinks that his father felt better then. Well, not because his son was hurting, but because right then they were the closest they’ve ever been.

It’s stupid but still it does look like it sometimes. Now Stiles is all grown up. He’s not that little kid anymore that desperately needed help, _needed his_ _father_. Now Stiles is grown up and so different. He knows that his dad isn’t happy with those changes, he sees it in his eyes and this whole nervous aura around him. Sometimes the man gets almost as frustrated as he himself does – is – all the time. But then his dad catches himself, looks scared for a little second, like if he was afraid that with his outburst he’d somehow start the ticking bomb that everyone, apparently dear Sheriff included, sees Stiles as.

It’s so frustrating. And yet, Stiles takes some creepy pleasure from all that. He can’t explain it but at some point he started to practically _ache_ for some conflict. He began to savor all those dark emotions, began to arouse them in others, taking pleasure from bringing someone down to such level. He doesn’t know the actual reasons for that particular change but he knows it must be connected to the place that was home to him for the last four years - Eichen fucking House. ( _He’s gonna bring this place to ruin one day._ )

And, he assumes, to his soulmate as well.

He didn’t really had a time to think about them at Eichen, or at least not freely. During some therapies they tried to force him to relieve his wild thoughts and locked up feelings, expecting him to weep over the floor about the loss of _The One_ , about the tragedy that had stroke his life and burned it down. Well… He’s never been good at meeting the expectations. To say they were disappointed when he truly unleashed all of his _wild thoughts and locked up feelings_ , would be an understatement.

After he attacked the psychiatrist with too graceful for a patient considered to be a human fire container and just traumatized _boy_ , after he spent the whole therapy burning a hole in a middle of her forehead, after he cornered her right after the end of the group therapy time, swiftly locking his hands around her vulnerable throat and breakable wrist, watching fear and panic unleash in her bright eyes – after that he ended in isolation ward, strapped to the bed, pumped full of meds making his body go numb and mind closing on him.

He’ll never forget that. Not what Brunski did to him then. Not how he felt trapped in his own body, how inside he was still raging, but unable to even _move_. 

And that was the last time they asked him about his soulmate. Since then he was under special supervision from Brunski, who was to keep an eye on him and keep him grounded ( _secured_ ). He never told his father about what happened behind the thick walls of the damned asylum. And doesn’t plan to. He already has everything planned. Time in isolation can be really inspiring..

Considering all this, he’s not surprised his dad is so freaked out by him. His younger innocent self would probably be too. And the worst thing is that it doesn’t really bother him. It should, because that would mean _healthy_ _&_ _sane_. But well fuck, it doesn’t. Things that are considered normal and sane stopped bothering him long time ago. Now everything else is what bothers him. Be it a casual kindness or normal entertainment. He prefers when people are wary of him, or better completely freaked out. That’s what makes it normal to him. Because any kind reaction is just suspicious. Unnatural.

And he’s not even into what’s consider typical for a boy his age kind of fun – comics, games, girls and all that. His taste has upgraded. Now he’s into more… dark, sinister themes. You know, planning world damnation, mind manipulation, , bringing someone from their high horse.

Burning certain place to the ground.

Getting rid of some _trash_.

… So many possibilities. And of course entertaining the locals.

And aren’t the locals entertained by him? They were through years. The constant talking about the poor boy that has gone mad, just like his mother before. About the poor deputy struggling with such loss. About the newly elected Sheriff that shines as a good model citizen and the man of the law after years of overcoming his own issues, that only made him look better in the eyes of society ( _more human_ ). About a broken son he got as a reward for all the good he did for this town…

And about his supposedly dead soulmate. Yes, he heard all of the gossip and tales about his “dead love”. Most theories assume that one Cora Hale, known to be a little spitfire and troublemaker, was his mate. If she was, then they would probably make a good match - they would burn the world to the ground with their innocent pranks. But Stiles doesn’t really believe that she was his other half. He doesn’t feel so. Also, he has one solid argument for that one, something that no one beside him knows about:

His soulmark didn’t fade.

Well, it did at first, at some point it was close to gone during those first months after the- after _that_ _day_. Then it very slowly started to regain its original colors. Now that he’s more lucid than back then, he remembers it’s began to change back right when _he_ start to change ( _for worse_ ). At the beginning of his lovely time at Eichen he didn’t really have a time to check on it. Fuck, he was strapped to the bed or a wheelchair for most of the time then, he simply didn’t have a damn chance to take a quick look at it.

But eventually, after he got his game going and the doctors stopped hearing loud and clear _DANGER_ whenever his name was mentioned, he finally got his chance to look at it for the first time since _then_. And what a surprise it was.

Not only did his soulmark regained its original deep black colors, but also changed its form. No more smooth and elegant lines, wrapping around his body gently yet evidently claiming him as well. Now in their place came ragged lines with spikes biting into his ( _not so soft anymore_ ) skin, not like poison ivy but _poisoned_ ivy, desperately clutching or even _clawing_ at him. Before, he always felt safe, protected in the embrace of his soulmark. Now he feels _needed_. And that’s enough for him to believe that they are alive.

And that they are hurting.

* * *

The mystery of his soulmate became one of his secret projects. He was out of Eichen for not longer than week and he already had work to do. He divided his new interests into categories and tagged each one with priority level. There were currently three top priority projects on his list:

  1. Undead Love.
  2. Family bonding time.
  3. Mystery of the local vet.



The last one is more of a fun project of his. And he keeps it very guarded, because it certainly wouldn’t make him look good if his father were to find out. He would probably take it as a sign of obsession and “madness” that will hang over the former mental asylum patient’ head, like a constant threat to his organized life, for a very long time. 

But he can help but be intrigued by one Alan Deaton. It all actually started when he saw the vet for the first time at Eichen. But the case is – it wasn’t a single time. He saw the man for multiple times throughout the years. And it always looked the same:

The man never seemed to be visiting someone, neither a patient nor one of the employees, even though one of the therapists apparently is his sister, as Stiles concluded. It just didn’t look like a family kind of visit – but more like he was called there. For a reason. The two siblings were always talking in a professional way and at first Stiles thought it was just a family trait. But after few visits he came to conclusion that the man actually has to be there for some business. The moment he stepped through the door, easily lost to the inattentive eye in the gloomy hall of the mental asylum, his sister would approach him and they were instantly moving, never hugging or greeting in any way. All business.

Stiles analyzed through and through the way the mysterious siblings were acting with each other. And the sister alone as well, those few times he had an absolute pleasure having some nice heart-to-heart with her. She wasn’t like the other psychiatrists. Stiles got a feeling she was hiding something, but that she wasn’t afraid for the secret, feeling quite confident in the fact that no one would suspect her. So it must be something literally out of mind if she was so sure of that. Something that no one could imagine and possible believe. But what bothered him the most was the other feeling he got from her whenever she was leading a group therapy.

Like she knew something more about _him_. Something that even he himself didn’t knew.

For some reason he thinks those two things might be connected.

But what exactly could a local vet do in a psychiatric facility other than visiting some patient or sister?

And that was exactly what Stiles was trying to solve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So do you like the change in the narration? Tell me if I succeeded in getting into (this) Stiles character, if you felt it or not. I love reading your comments. They make my day!
> 
> I plan to post the next chapter in the next week.
> 
> Have a lovely day/night wherever you are


	4. Eye of Destiny?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t have any mirror in his room. Not a single mirror to taunt him with his pathetic and grotesque appearance. But still, as if something was toying with him, never letting him get away from the ruthless truth, his misery always stares back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, but I was really busy and stressed out lately. In reward you get a longer chapter - over 4k words! 
> 
> And remember when I promised you more action in the next chapter? Well, see yourself XD But fair warning: the first part is so dynamic just WOAH. 
> 
> Song to get more in the mood: "Haunt" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.

_He’s burning again_

_Fire chases after him, toying with him_

_Letting him free only to attack with double force_

_Little licks of fire turns into biting whips of pain_

_He can_ smell _his own burning flesh_

 _He can_ feel _his eyes almost melting_

_The smoke cutting off his screams of agony_

_And that smell-_

HELP ME

_That smell-_

THEY WILL PAY

_Like rope with thorns around his throat_

_That tightens with every breath he takes_

MAKE IT STOP

_Like acid filling his veins_

JUST MAKE IT STOP

_That burns more than fire_

SAVE ME

_That burns_

_Burns_

BURNS

Stiles woke up with a gasp. His burning body shaking and seizing, writhing on sweat-soaked bed ( _bed, not floor_ ) still fighting off the fire. Left hand clutching desperately at the sheets ( _sheets, that’s right you’re touching them_ ) bound so tight he can feel his bones grid together and nails dig through the material into his skin ( _you can feel_ it _, not fire, different pain_ ). Lungs fighting for breath now that he isn’t choking on smoke and this- this smell-

 _Fuck,_ he just can’t figure out what that smell is. It’s so fucking frustrating. It bugs him more than those whole nightmares do.

Now doesn’t that sounds insane. Better his therapist didn’t found out.

“ _Oh thanks the Force_ ” he literally moans in relief. The seizures finally stopped. Only about 10 minutes, standard. He hates them. He hates them so fucking much.

He lies like that for several minutes, in sweat-soaked sheets sticking to his still burning body, fuming inside at his fucked up body, fucked up dreams, and generally his _fucked up life_.

Thankfully he hadn’t woke his father with his little breakdown. The pitiful and resigned face of his dad is the last thing he wants to see in moments like this. Because despite how much right he has to be angry there always comes this judgmental stare. It makes him feel like little kid who spent whole night on reading comic books under the covers and then slept through all classes – not like someone who yet again burned alive together with his soulmate.

“Kriffing hell” he groans as he tries to turn to his side, sheets going with him, glued to his hot and sticky body.

They had to rearrange his room after he came back, adapt it to his… new needs. Now he can sleep only either on the back or on the left side of his body. ( _Never on the front. Never again._ ) And he needs to lie on his left side so he could prop the dead weight of his body and stand up from the bed at all. His father even insisted on installing some bars – the idea Stiles wasn’t able to stop and now he can enjoy his deformed reflection staring back at him from those metal pipes.

He doesn’t have any mirror in his room. Not a single mirror to taunt him with his pathetic and grotesque appearance. But still, as if something was toying with him, never letting him get away from the ruthless truth, his misery always stares back at him, be it from the car window, handle of the door or those damn bars.

He groans even louder as he begins his journey to standing position. His bed is a little higher now, so that he didn’t have to pull himself up that much. This way standing up should be easier for his weak ( _useless_ ) body. It’s all about dropping down the trembling legs and putting some force into the rest of uncooperative parts, forcing him to straighten up. It should be easy but _well fuck_ it’s not. Nothing’s simple with him nowadays. He just can’t catch a break, can he?

Few minutes ( _hours, days, whole eternity_ ) later he’s standing – more or less – shaking from the effort of forcing his body to such extremes... Now comes the best part.

With slow and uneven steps he makes his way to the bathroom, his body finally reacting to the chill in the room. Another eternity later and he’s holding the sink for the dear life, trying to catch breath and pleading his body to cooperate for _just a damn minute_.

When he doesn’t feel like collapsing on the heavenly cold tiles of the bathroom floor, he slowly lets go of the sink, straightening the fingers of his left hand – the right swaying limply at his side. He sighs deeply, although still a little bit shakily, and turns to the shower.

The cold water is his savior. Not only it cools his burning body, putting out the fire that tried to eat him whole moments ago, but it also gives him enough shock to get more awake and aware.

He stands there for ten minutes or so, enjoying the biting cold of the water. One of the rare moments when he feels something akin to relief – something he didn’t think he would ever feel again. He saviors such moments, afraid that this one could be the last. He just wants to feel something other than pain or numbness, even for a second.

Eventually he comes out of his little heaven when the pleasant shock starts to turn into cold numbness. He doesn’t bother with a towel. The heat will probably return soon and he just wants to enjoy the coldness for few more minutes. He goes straight to the sink to brush his teeth, eyes never giving up to the urge to just _look_. He makes it quick, like always, feeling the rising weight of the gaze of his reflection.

He shuffles back to his room, steps not as slow and jerky as before, but still not exactly sure nor smooth. His right leg as usual, gives up under the weight of his body, not yet prepared for the day and any form of activity. He reaches the closet and takes out another pair of shorts, not bothering with more layers or even a shirt, simply enjoying the chill and the fresh air that comes through the open window. Stiles made it clear to his father that he needs an open window, and even though the Sheriff tried to argue that it’s not safe to leave it fully open at night (and not _sane_ , which was left implied), the man simply couldn’t refuse seeing the agony that Stiles suffers through every night and remembering how it was then, when his little son had to be kept in low temperatures all the time.

But for Stiles it’s about more than fresh air. For four years he was forced to live in a small room ( _cage_ ) with no window, shuffle through narrow ( _suffocating_ ) corridors and stay in the dark maw of the main hall. ( _And in that room in the depths of the hell_ ). For four years he was imprisoned in a cage that grew smaller with every strained breath he took. Now that he’s out ( _free_ ), he just wants to feel it – to make sure that he’s not in the cage anymore. Open window not only brings the fresh air that he longed for but was denied for too long, but most importantly it leaves the space open. And Stiles can bask in the illusion of freedom it gives him.

If only his body wasn’t so keen on destroying that beautiful fantasy.

Even putting on the briefs takes too much time nowadays, since he only has one arm at disposal, the right one still hanging limply at his side. And his right leg surely doesn’t help either. Stiles sleeps only in lose pajama shorts now, because he simply can’t stand any other clothes on his skin knowing that when he’ll wake up it will be in flames. He would get rid of the sheets but he actually needs something to cuddle. He doesn’t know where that came from. He just has this weird urge to hold something, _to_ _feel something_ against his feverish body. ( _Something soft and harmless._ )

Finally dressed and ( _completely not_ ) ready for the day, only then he notices the hour.

Three am. Five hours left to school. Well, at least he has some time to work on his little project.

He sits down at his desk in his comfortable chair (adjusted to his special condition as well, but he can’t complain – it’s so damn comfy) and gets to work.

After first week of observation - which yes, included following the man around and writing down his daily routines – and getting some info about the clinic and the vet, he concludes that Alan Deaton is indeed a mysterious man. In the clichést way possible probably.

Stiles hadn’t found much on the man, only that the population of Beacon County surprisingly more or less agrees with his opinion. The local vet, although respected and all that, especially by the animals lovers, is generally considered to be weird. It turns out that no one actually knows anything about him, other than his profession. He doesn’t have any friends and his only family seems to be one Marin Morell, his sister with whom he doesn’t seem to have the closest relationship, visiting and talking with her actually only during his suspicious visits in Eichen.

Speaking of The House of Damned, the local vet seems to visit the place irregularly but still _too regularly_ for the man who’s not a human doctor of any kind and doesn’t even have any patient to visit. But he clearly has some business there. Stiles just hasn’t figure out yet what kind of business. But he will, with time and proper investigation.

He started to read more about the Eichen facility too, trying to solve the mystery of that place. And he wants to tell he was surprised finding so many dark stories and theories about his former home of the past four years, but well, he wasn’t. Not in slightest.

Apparently the asylum originally was an internment camp and field hospital during World War II. Oh yeah, that makes him feel so much better knowing on what he was sleeping for four years.. But that’s not the best part.

The tales say that the camp was destroyed by some dark forces summoned to avenge the life of innocents only to bring even more pain and chaos to the land.

The most popular theory on Eichen House is that the asylum is ruled by those dark forces that never left the town, but were bound to that damned place. Their dark energy eventually started to affect the staff, turning them into sadists with deranged souls with insatiable hunger and feeding life force of their patients.

…he can’t _not_ agree with that one.

And Stiles is quite an open-minded person, the supernatural elements never seemed too ridiculous to him, now even less that he had a pleasure to be in the literal Hell. Besides, there are reasons for why the facility is known as the Echo House. All the patients will understand that.

Those voices. Those sounds. Every word. Every whisper. Every creak of the floor. Every whimper. _Every single sound_.

All echoing through the halls, slipping through the walls, attacking weak minds during night.

But there was something else too.

A different kind of sounds, hard to deter among all the others. But Stiles heard them.

Every single one.

There was something else, under the floors of the facility. Something dark.

Something _unnatural_.

And that’s the reason why Stiles doesn’t ignore all those “crazy” theories.

He knows what he’s heard. He knows what has crawled into his head and under his skin every night. Nothing else has ever made him feel that way. Like he was living in the actual horror story, as the victim ( _a prey_ ) only to be crushed and eaten by some inhuman monster.

Now he wonders if Deaton is somehow connected to all this. He’s sure that the “vet” is hiding something. And it can’t be anything good.

Thankfully, there _is_ something that Stiles was able to find out about the man.

He was close friend to the Hales, but especially to the head of the famous family, Talia Hale. Now that strikes him as a little suspicious. The Hales were well known by literally everyone in the whole Beacon County, and kept good relationships with a lot of people. They were respected and even loved by many. But out of everyone they kept closer relation with, Alan Deaton, just some simple local vet, was the closest they had to family friend. What Stiles tries to figure out is why. They didn’t even have any animals. And no, none of them were friends with the man in school, he checked that too. Deaton wasn’t even from Beacon Hills – he moved here enough long ago for people to forget about that little fact.

What was so special about the man that _Talia fucking Hale_ decided to be friends with him?

Deaton generally strikes him as a person who knows more than he lets people see. And from what he was able to gather, he’s interested in herbs. He saw through the window at the clinic various jars with some weird things he wasn’t able to recognize from the distance. And he saw the man multiple times buying some herbs and books at local stores. It looks as some pretty innocent side interest but Stiles knows weird when he sees it. And he knows exactly what he needs to do.

He needs to go to the clinic.

That’s his next move. And his best shot at the moment. He doesn’t have any other leads – only a hunch that the clinic is an important element in this whole case.

But well, he doesn’t have any animals so how is he gonna get there? Just march in like a mad man everyone thinks he is? Somehow he doubts Deaton would buy it. If he’s anything like Morell then he too probably knows more about him, even though they’ve never met.

Back to the topic: he needs a plan. A little break-in shouldn’t be hard, but for some reason Deaton’s secured the place like some kind of fortress. He won’t be able to get in the normal way ( _if only his father heard that…)._ Plus, he has a strange feeling about the whole place. And if he’s so keen to believe all those theories about Eichen and Deaton’s connection to that crap, it would be fucking unwise for him to ignore all the warning bells. 

And that’s why he needs to trick the man. Maybe he could pull off the role of the crazy teen and use his old friendship with Scottie-boy who happens to work there…

Or maybe he could give a fake call to the police. And then he would just show up at the scene, playing the part of the weird son of the Sheriff. He could at least take a quick look around the place and see if there’s anything worth his time.

Fuck, it all sounds so stupid.

Maybe he needs to give the case some rest.

Maybe he could just-

“Stiles?”

 _Fuck dammit_. He was so lost in thought he didn’t even heard his father waking up.

He turns to the man standing in the doorway.

“Yeah?” he asks lightly and as innocently as he can nowadays. But the Sheriff doesn’t seem to buy it, not even a little bit.

“How long have you been up?” his dad asks with serious expression, but he can see pity and worry breaking through the stone and professional mask of the Sheriff.

“You know how it is. Woke up few hours ago and couldn’t fall asleep again.”

That’s enough to make his father back away. He’s not so proud of himself for that one but it was needed to be done or else he would have to suffer through hour-long lecture both from his father and later from his therapist. He had enough of coaching time. They act like few words are enough to help him. As if the understatement of your problems was the matter here – not the fucking pain, useless body, nightmares and his whole pathetic life.

His father sighs and looks away. He does that sometimes, like if he wasn’t able to look too long at the raw truth in the form of his son.

“School starts in an hour. So get ready while I make us some breakfast” and with that he leaves.

(Stiles just loves these mornings and their little father-son interactions.)

And he needs to get up and dressed _again_. Just perfect.

* * *

About twenty minutes later Stiles, finally fully dressed, stumbles down the stairs, almost tripping over ( _again_ ) thanks to his oh so helpful leg.

His dad once suggested buying a cane for him, but one look from Stiles was enough for him to drop the topic. If he can walk, then it’s fine. It just takes him more time and effort ( _and will to live_ ). What he agreed for was something to hold his limp arm. And that’s how he ended up with an arm sling which he must wear whenever he goes outside.

He makes his way to the kitchen where his dad is already waiting for him with simple sandwiches. He sits down slowly, his stiff muscles don’t really helping – nor the worrying side looks from his father. But the man holds back, knowing that he would only make it worse if he were to intervene in any way. Stiles needs to do this himself. It’s _just_ sitting down after all.

When he’s finally settled and ready to devour some food his father finally breaks the tense silence.

“So, any plans for today?”

Oh yeah. Cross running, martial arts classes, lacrosse tryouts, heavy partying, alcohol, drugs and generally rock ’n roll.

“I have some movies to catch up” he answers instead. “And I was thinking about checking out this new bakery. Hear they have some neat snacks there” he offers lightly, testing the waters. The topic of Stiles going anywhere alone (or generally) is still sensitive. But with this one his therapist actually has his back, claiming that poor Stiles needs to relearn living and being in actual society, which includes _going out alone like a normal person_.

His father tries to mask his worry and resistance but Stiles still feels it, even without looking at the man’s face.

“Yeah, I heard they have those amazing-“

“Oh no no, don’t even think about it. _You_ can get only _one_ donut and one cookie – forget about _dozens_ of donuts with chocolate syrup and those cookies with blueberry filling I know you have eaten last week at the station.”

“Fine” his adult father, Sheriff of the whole county, huffs in response like some petulant child.

They’re getting better at this whole father-son thing.

* * *

Nothing out of ordinary happens at school. Well, freaking the fellow students out and driving the professors up the wall is now typical school day for him, so nothing beside that happens ( _unfortunately_ ). People generally keep away from him, teachers try to not provoke him and Scottie seems to be close to having an asthma attack whenever he sees him.

No one even dares to bully him. Not anymore. Few idiots did try during the first weeks, but he was prepared for that and quickly made them back away and rethink their lives and calculate the chances at living another day. He was good at that when he was nine - now he’s on the (Dark) Master level.

So with nothing else to do, Stiles has spent an entire day trying to figure out how to get into that damn clinic.

And he came up with exactly _zero_ ideas.

But he _needs_ to get there. He knows that just like with Deaton, there’s more to the clinic than it seems. He has a _feeling_ that it might be a key to the whole case, the first seal to break.

(Little did Stiles know that he’s problem will solve itself pretty soon.)

* * *

_Force_

_It’s just-_

_A perfection._

Stiles can’t help but moan shamelessly at the taste of those sweet and round donuts with the amazing chocolate syrup.

Visiting this bakery was the best idea he had this whole week. Their food is just _so kriffing amazing_ his mind stopped caring about his lame vocabulary.

This time his father hasn’t picked him up from school. Instead Stiles went straight to the bakery, quite excited for the prospect of so many sweets after such a dull and uneventful day. _What?_ He can be happy for some sweets. He haven’t had any for four years dammit.

He didn’t want to eat at the place though, deciding on taking the heavenly donuts and other sweets he’s going to hide from his father and going straight home. He needs some alone time with the delicious treats.

He’s walking down the street, with cookie stuffed in his mouth, not caring in slightest about the weird looks he might get for that. People generally look at him weird, so why bother.

And then he hears a rather strange sound.

Something between a mewl and velociraptor’s call.

He’s not sure if it’s a good idea but his curiosity wins over logic.

The sound seems to come from the side of the nearby building. Oh, it’s an _alley_. It’s not like he’s marching straight into some cheap thriller or an episode of CSI: Beacon Hills..

As a proper mad man, he goes into the alley, with his father lecture already playing in the background.

He hears another whimper and something akin to angry huff, coming right from behind the dumpster. With surprisingly steady steps he makes his way towards the source of weird sounds.

And finds a creature from the hell itself.

One big greenish eye is staring at him, kinda accusingly, like if he was late or something.

A cat. He found a cat. If you could even call this… creature a cat. 

The animal has black and greyish fur, or would have if not for the dirt and whatever it is covering it. His long body looks definitely too thin and has already lost some patches of fur in few places where the pale and a little redden skin sticks out.

And it has one eye. In a place where the other should be are only some nasty looking but old scars. Definitely a fighter then.

And visibly unamused by him. So much judgment and they only just met.

But still, for some crazy reason, Stiles already likes the hellish creature. He has a feeling they will get along just fine.

He slowly and now a little bit shakily lowers himself to take a better look at the cat that’s still glaring at him. Fortunately he doesn’t find any injuries, only more dirt and angry huffs. Well, time to taste the waters.

With his only good hand (which should be seen as a huge sacrifice and sign of trust – or stupidity) he reaches towards the little beast, which thankfully only hisses at him in response, probably too tired to attack him properly.

Okay then. He takes a hoodie he always keeps in his backpack (his dad insisted, even though he doesn’t need any more layers, satisfied with only thin shirt covering his hot body), and carefully picks up the hissing ball of something, wrapping it with surprising care in the hoodie. Now comes the best part.

With a remarkable grace, he pulls himself up, somehow managing not to drop the animal right with his pathetic ass on the dirty ground. It cost him more time and energy than he likes and will ever admit.

Only when he’s standing and panting too heavily for such small action, he gets it.

He finally has a reason to go to the vet.

He looks down at the muddy head (somehow even more unamused) sticking out of the improvised blanket and can’t help but actually laugh, for the very first time in the long time.

Turns out he really had a good feeling.

Time to visit certain clinic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hit 2000 words and only then I noticed that we’re still in the bathroom XD So I had to edit it “a little”. But generally I wanted now to focus more on Stiles’ issues and build up a little more his character. Hope I succeeded. 
> 
> And maybe a little explanation: Stiles is a nerd, Star Wars fan at that, therefore his uses nerdish phrases. And while the "the Force" might be more obvious and known even by people who haven't watched SW, "kriffing" may be a little harder to get. It's a fictional sweard word in Huttese language generally spoken by (obviously) the Hutts and other inhabitants of Tattoine, like Anakin for example. I thought it would fit Stiles. 
> 
> But what do you think about the cat? Have you ever seen a lykoi cat? Well, let's say this one may look similar. So kinda creepy but still intriguing. 
> 
>   
> Hope you liked this chapter. Have an epic day/night wherever you are!


End file.
